


Sluice

by Cumvore, Slither-the-least (baeberiibungh)



Series: Houdini [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Abduction, Angst, Blood, Bruises, Burning, Castration, Crate, Crying, Cuts, Declawing, Defanged, Dehydration, Disassociation, Dreams, Drugs, Face-Fucking, Fisting, Gangbang, M/M, Mountain Ash, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not hunters, Object Insertion, Objectification, PLEASE HEED THE TAGS, Peehole fucking, Physical Abuse, Piss, Poison, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rescue, Sad, Slapping, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicide Attempts, Tears, Torture, Watersports, Welts, Whipping, de personalisation, herbs, suicide ideation, throwing up, very dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 01:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6033445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cumvore/pseuds/Cumvore, https://archiveofourown.org/users/baeberiibungh/pseuds/Slither-the-least
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a fuck doll, that’s all he is. Filled to the brim with piss and cum and frothing with blood and still hungry for more…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sluice

The people look at him in obvious distaste and lust. His broken body was too sloppy now to even put to proper use, but still when one started on in him, either due to boredom or because they were feeling casually horny, the others joined soon enough. The blood was always dripping in droplets, and when he would fall over, gasping for breath, they would insert a syringe into his flesh haphazardly and bring him back from the brink of death. Sometimes the people muttered how it would be better if he would just die, just give in, but no, he was still clinging on.

“Petey!” a man calls, and when Peter would crawl to him on his scabbed knees, slumping from side to side with each step, he would be first kicked in his ribs that always made him throw up cum in stringy spittle, as he falls on his side, clutching onto his skin and bones to stop everything from hurting. He would then be pulled up by his matted hair, and fed a thick, hot broth that would inevitably burn his tongue red, and make him beg in a croaky mumble, with tears that never seem to run out, for some water, just a little, please!

Depending on who was feeding him, he may get some clean water to drink, or maybe he will just get a face pull of acrid piss that would make him chuck up his meal again. Sometimes Peter ended up picking up that too because he would not be fed for days in the meantime. Nothing apart from cocks that is. 

They caught him on a simple patrol along the Hale property, his stretch a simple night one, as everyone else had their own schedules and partners for patrolling. Chris always told him to take someone with him, anyone really if Chris is not available, but he was too prideful to do that. Peter did like taking Stiles with him on some occasions, his verbal diarrhea not hiding his intelligence one bit in Peter’s eyes. But Derek would get extra grumpy when Stiles would return from patrols as such, so Peter had gotten in the habit of doing it alone.

They were ready to catch him and had wolfsbane soaked clothes and ropes to keep him in line. At first, they cast a circle of mountain ash around him, thus trapping him effectively within the circle to pump him full of their drugs. Then they tied him up, trussed him good and hid him under the tarp of one of the cars. Peter guessed that they were hunters seeing all the efficiency he could make out in his fuzzed state. Maybe he will get a chance to get out, to run, to save himself. Maybe Chris will come out from nowhere to save him and rescue him like a prince.

Nothing like that happened. Peter got carted away many states over, with the dawning realization increasing the budding panic in him that these people were not hunters, not really. What they exactly were or what they would want with a werewolf showcased some very grim possibilities to a imprisoned Peter. Maybe they were after his hide, or fangs or blood or a thousand other reasons. It was not just human who ended up being victims of trafficking after all. Even the supernaturals had a huge underground market where everything was for sale and anything could be bought. 

Peter was moved into five cars during his journey and he does not remember the last leg, for they drugged him with fumes and he went unconscious. The repeated use of wolfsbane was enough to make his healing factor sluggish to be just a slide better than human. When he woke up, he found that he was locked in an iron crate with cutouts for his legs, hands and head. He was tied up like this for a week during which Peter ended up wetting and shitting himself many times over to his utter humiliation. 

The crate was placed in a kind of courtyard like thing, with stairs and chairs surrounding him on his four side, all elevated above him so that he was always down. After the week, where they fed him only water and bread and cleaned him with a hose, they pulled him out of the crate. Before they did so, however, they shot him up with a drug that left him reeling and half out of his mind, drooling like a dog and eyes hazed over. Peter could identify the foxglove, moonseed with Jimson weed and cheery twigs, everything fatal to him, but used only in a dosage to incapacitate him, not kill him yet.

That followed the worst four months of Peter’s life, including the fire and the coma that followed. Peter was tied up onto a wide frame, like a door’s, with a plank behind him. His arms and legs were ties to the frame very, very, tightly and then came out the knifeworks. They inserted a wolfsbane soaked mass of water hemlock into his mouth so that he was steadily swallowing poison with each breath and then they put a sharp blade to his ball sack and cut off his penis and balls in one stroke. Peter screamed and screamed at that until he lost his consciousness.

When he woke up, he was lying on a table, his mouth feeling crummy and painful as well as his hands and feet. When he ran his tongue over his bleeding gums, he found that his captors had tore away all of his teeth and fangs out of his mouth. He tried moving his hands and feet and realized that his fingernails and claws had been meted the same treatment. He had been defanged, castrated, poisoned so that his healing factor was just about useless, just working enough to make sure that he would not bleed to his death and no way to get out of this nightmare. 

Then came the conditioning. His messy groin that hurt everytime he peed, was forced open with objects and hard cocks and all Peter could do was scream. These people were effectively fucking his pee hole with their cocks and stuff, and it felt terrible. Not only was the pain overwhelming, but the intense sensations of big things being forced into such a small hole left him feeling breathless as he tried to shift and ease the pain. But everytime he moved, someone would whip his face, drawing red lines of pain on it, while his lips ripped, his cheekbones split and his nose broke. 

It was the same thing with his mouth. Without his teeth to hinder or stop the intruders, his face would be fucked relentlessly and they would fuck it with such force that his broken nose would start bleeding anew from the hard thrusts. They came in him, making him drink their cum and piss at every opportunity and spit on him, calling him names and Peter would cry, long heaving shudders racking his thin body, and he would wish that he would just drop dead one day each night, except that he would be always there the next morning.

His ass was used for fisting and large objects insertions, the people who used him, for that is how he saw them anymore, the persistent pain he was in wiping any deeper thoughts or plans to save himself or to find out more about his enemies, used to make bets with each other as to what else they could put in Peter’s ass. Peter was wiped out of his mind and two months of such behavior, along with the drug they were administrating him that left him with abnormal thirst, distorted sight, delirium, incoherence, that he started to seek the small amount of contact he could garner while he was being used.

It didn’t take him long to realize that he was just a fuck doll. Filled to the brim with piss and cum and frothing with blood and still hungry for more, because it did not seem enough anymore. He kept dripping pee onto the ground, because his organs there had prolapsed like how a vagina prolapses and wasn’t that just fitting? His ass was forever gaping, it feeling empty when there was nothing there and as for his mouth, the more it was filled the better, because who needed to breath after all. Peter was just a husk then, his thoughts and ideas glazed over with the nothingness of not being a living being but just as object to be used. 

Sometimes he would dream of his old life, of warm hands around him and the smell of home filling his nose, of people who were perhaps his friends and treated him so, but it became that much easier to forget what he had seen in the wispy veils of the dreamworld, when all he really had to do was just be a sluice for their bodily liquids, as was required of him and just what he deserved. 

 

******************************************************************************

 

Chris had to fight tooth and nail to find Peter and it was such a horrible find in the end that he threw up. Peter, the Peter that he had known and loved, was no longer there, but had been burnt into a crisp again, this time the fire mental rather than physical. He clotted Peter to his chest and returned home and Deaton actually gasped when he saw Peter too. Derek went on a rampage and killed all the people in that house, where he came upon more like Peter there, their skull displayed like that of a hunt and he had killed everyone that Chris missed the first time. They may have been humans in their body, but there was no doubt that they were just monsters.

Deaton asked around for help and herbs to help Peter. He had been under the strong drugs that his healing factor was no longer actually working, he had many internal injuries and his bones had been broken many times. His face was disfigured after repeated whipping, one of his eyes gone bad as he now stared blankly at the world at large, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, and worse of all, saying nothing. It takes Chris months not to flinch at how Peter never flinches from anything, no matter how painful it is. But he holds on.

Things get bad, very bad when Peter comes back just enough to try to kill himself. They don’t seem like conscious decisions, but unconscious cries for release, form what he had endured and everyone of the pack take shifts to watch over him. Derek and Stiles take those most often and Derek does not even raises his eyebrows when Peter starts to respond to Stiles with a simple glide of his finger over his hand that is holding he book he is reading from. Chris cries at that, happy and sad at the same time, but relieved too.

Maybe, just by some stroke of luck, or maybe because it is Peter, who had always been a survivor, just maybe, they will make it through.

**Author's Note:**

> This is maybe the worst of the lot, so sorry about that. Thank you for reading. Not beta read. Please, kudos and comments!


End file.
